Any Minute Now (25 page)

“I hope that made you feel better,” St. Vincent said when they had ordered and were alone again.

“Better than a blunt stick in the eye,” White observed.

St. Vincent settled himself more comfortably in his overstuffed chair. “Look, Albin, no one appreciates more than I everything you've done for us—especially when it comes to the Well, where, as you know, we're on the same page. But some days—and today's one of them—it seems a pity that I dislike you so as a human being.”

“Frankly, I don't think about you at all, Luther, not even when I'm with you.”

“You know what your problem is? You despise everyone who isn't black, conservative, and rich. Who isn't you, in other words. Worse, you enjoy punishing them for those supposed sins. You remind me of those plantation blacks who served their master in his mansion, turning against their own in the fields. They were often crueler than the owners ever were.”

White was on the verge of rising and walking out, but their dinner was served.

St. Vincent grinned without an iota of warmth. “Timed that just right, didn't I?”

White picked up his fork and knife in a manner vaguely menacing.

“Go ahead,” St. Vincent said, “if that's what you want.”

White put down the cutlery. “What is it you want, Luther?”

“I want to know that the resurrected Well will be better than its predecessor.”

“And you think baiting me with your racist shit is going to do the trick?”

“Hmm. Remember what you said when you first walked into the library?”

“What? About the women? That was a joke.”

“And what came after?” St. Vincent shook his head. “We both know that's a lie, Albin. You're as sexist as they come.”

“What if I am?”

“You've got to curb that instinct.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a recruit for you. Young, strong-willed, vicious, even by your standards.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Truly. Her name is Lucy.”

 

23

“To answer your first question, yes, I am Saudi.” Seiran el-Habib's voice was garbled, as if he was speaking around a mouthful of stones. “I am one of those not of the royal family who resents the terrible grip it has on Arabia.”

“Like Osama,” Whitman said.

“The easy rejoinder, to be sure.”

Dawn had arrived in Western Pakistan. Light, thick and filthy, seeped through the villa's windows like lava flowing downhill. The chill of the night was slowly abating.

“But it wouldn't be the correct one.” El-Habib regarded Whitman out of eyes sunken deep in their sockets. He was sitting opposite Whitman, a damp towel wrapped around his face, as if he were about to have an old-fashioned shave with a straight razor. The razor would have been kinder to him than the fire. Islets of blood oozed from his cheeks and chin, staining the towel. “I have no dog in the religious hunt. You see? Trained in America. I know the idioms well enough to make a hash of them.” He grinned, then grimaced. “Ow, ow, ow!”

Whitman lifted a bottle. “I found liquor in that cabinet over there.”

“For the girls.”

“You like them drunk, then.”

El-Habib's expression turned sour, and his eyes darkened, as if they were all pupil.

“But we're not here to discuss your deplorable sexual proclivities.” Whitman offered the bottle. “It will ease the pain.”

“I relish the pain,” the Saudi said. He was on his third bottle of water. “It's a constant reminder of what you did to me.”

“Stop your crying,” Whitman snapped. “Whatever happens to you now is the consequence of your own actions.” He set the bottle down between them. It was a boundary as well as a symbol of who ate above the salt and who did not. “You made some bad decisions, Seiran. And here you are.”

“I am protected.”

“Correction. You
were
protected.” Whitman sat back, regarding his prisoner for a moment. “Two questions, Seiran. Answer them and we're done here. Who is protecting you? And why?”

“You will die for this transgression, you know that.”

“Do I look frightened?”

“You and your people.”

At that moment, Flix entered the room. “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,” he said, in a weirdly jovial tone of voice. He stopped, momentarily taken aback by the state of the Saudi's face. “What the hell happened to him?”

“He and my lighter had a disagreement.”

Flix whistled a snatch of a tune, cut off abruptly when he saw that Whitman was annoyed at the interruption. He sobered up immediately. “Seven down,
compadre
.”

“And you whistling away. Christ on a crutch.”

Whitman was about to add to this malediction when Flix held up a finger, tapped his encrypted sat phone. He toggled on the phone, listened for a moment, then held it out. “For you,” he said, then mouthed “
The King
.”

“Tell him I'm busy,” Whitman said.

“I won't.” Flix came toward Whitman. “And, trust me, you shouldn't either.”

Reluctantly, Whitman rose. Pointing to el-Habib, he said, “Keep an eye,” as he took the phone and went out into the corridor where he could not be overheard.

“Gregory, where the hell are you?” King Cutler's voice buzzed in his ear like a trapped bluebottle.

“Where d'you think we are?”

“Why haven't you checked in with your designated local contacts? No one has had a hint that you're in Beirut.”

“All due respect, those locals are NSA's people.”

“And?”

“I only sail on a leaky ship once.”

There was a pause while Cutler seemed to digest this. “How d'you propose—”

“I have my own contacts.”

Silence on the line. Then, “So. Are you making progress?”

“Slowly but surely. You can't believe what a mess Beirut is.”

“Worse than expected?”

“Much worse.”

“Mansour?”

“We'll get to him. It's a delicate balance, and the situation is more complicated than we were led to believe. The approach has to be finessed.”

“We need this brief to be a success; future contracts depend on it. I'm counting on you, Gregory.”

“Don't worry.”

“That seems to be all I'm doing these days.”

He could hear Cutler sigh as if he were standing right next to him.

“Meanwhile, we have a more immediate problem.”

“I already have enough problems on the ground. I don't need another one from fifty-eight hundred miles away.”

“The problem is closer than that,” Cutler said. “It concerns Orteño.”

“You're not going to start with the concussion business again. We put that to bed yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, something's come up. It turns out Flix didn't have a concussion.”

Whitman stood stock still, and yet his heart was racing. “What did he have then?”

“According to what I've heard, an operation.” Cutler's voice sounded strained, as if it were being beamed in from another dimension. “An unauthorized operation.”

“What?” Whitman moved so that he could look back at Flix, who was standing over el-Habib. “I don't understand.”

Then Cutler told him about St. Vincent, Paulus Lindstrom, and Mobius.

*   *   *

Julie was supposed to meet King Cutler for dinner, but instead she was standing outside the side door to The Doll House, waiting for Sydny to emerge. Cutler had called at the last minute to cancel, which was fine by her as she'd been contemplating canceling herself. The tension in his voice was palpable. Something was amiss at Universal Security. She felt the urge to ask him about it, but bit her tongue, knowing he'd just snap at her and hang up abruptly. His certain rejection of her—and her new suspicion that she couldn't trust him, or anyone but Whitman, for that matter—was something she could not countenance on this night when the streets felt strange and she was surrounded by strangers.

It was at times like this that she hated herself for remaining married to Gary. What a coward she was! She could tell herself all she wanted that she was doing it for his career, but the truth was she no longer cared about him or his career. Why should she? And, dammit, here came the tears! She rid herself of them with angry swipes, fought to get a grip on herself. She scolded herself: Enough with the self-pity, Julie!

That was why she had decided to come here. Seeing Sydny again would be a reward for the terrible pressure of her miserable life. And, she finally had to admit, the powerful magnetism between them could not be denied. It wasn't simply sexual—she was still having a hard time reconciling that idea—it was perhaps even more about the power that radiated from Sydny's core. Julie wanted to be like that.

The night was unseasonably warm, and because she was as nervous as a virgin entering her boyfriend's bedroom for the first time, she extracted a joint from a secret stash in the lining of her handbag, and lit up. She drew the earthy-sweet smoke deep into her lungs, held it there as long as she could before letting it out in a hiss. By the third toke, she was completely relaxed. And so her thoughts turned wholly and completely to Sydny, a creature she admired, envied, and who, frankly, scared her stiff.

Sydny had told her that she would often come out between sets to catch a breath of fresh air. This was particularly true during good weather. Julie had been smoking for only a couple of minutes when Sydny emerged through the steel-clad door. She smiled when she saw Julie; she didn't seem in the least surprised.

Without saying a word, she lifted the half-smoked joint from between Julie's fingers and took a long drag, raising her chin and exposing her neck. Even smoking she looked sexual. Julie wondered how a woman could look vulnerable and fearless at the same time. She realized that more than anything this was a quality she wanted to engender in herself.

“You aren't surprised to see me.”

Sydny handed back the joint. When she spoke it was with that peculiar sound people made when they were holding smoke deep in their lungs. “Why should I be? Your story is incomplete.” With a hiss like escaping steam, the sweet smoke broke from between her half-open lips, enveloping them both. “And because I still have things to learn from you.”

Julie was stunned. “
You
have things to learn from
me
?”

Sydny stood with one hip cocked. To Julie she looked like a superhero.

“Sure.” Sydney wrapped a coil of Julie's hair around her forefinger. “The moment we stop learning,” she said, “we die.” She smiled, almost dreamily as she watched Julie finish off the joint. “Had to screw up your courage, didn't you. What were you afraid of, that I'd reject you?”

“No,” Julie said softly. “I was afraid of what's happening right now.”

“Why?”

“Because all my life I've wanted things, desperately, and when I got them I discovered they were meaningless.”

“And you kept going on.”

“Yes.”

“To the next thing that disappointed you.”

“Yes.”

Cars passed in the street, their headlights picking out details in the storefronts that The Doll House's livid neon couldn't touch. A dog skittered into the street, ran barking after the vanished taillights. It lost interest quickly, returning to the shadowed sidewalk, where it sat sadly observing the nighttime world passing it by.

Sydny dropped her hand. “You know, when I see you now, you remind me of that dog—a lost little thing, looking for someone to play with, looking for something new, looking for someone to take you to that new place that doesn't turn to shit.”

Julie thought she should be angry, but there was nothing cutting in Sydny's tone. On the contrary, it was warm, intimate even. And, in any case, she's right, Julie thought. I
am
looking for that new thing, something that will change me forever.

She saw Sydny looking at her with a particular intensity that made her ears burn and the skin of her throat turn pink. “What?” she whispered.

“Let's go back to my place.”

A fizzy sensation took up residence in Julie's chest, reminding her of the moment she had stepped aboard her first roller coaster. Ecstasy and terror combined. “Aren't you due another turn?”

“Gregory isn't here. It's a slow night.” Sydny's smile was like a cat stretching. “Besides, I have something better in mind than climbing a pole.”

 

24

When Charlie returned to the room where Seiran el-Habib sat, tied to his chair and guarded by a fierce-looking Orteño, Whitman was still in the hallway listening with growing concern to what Cutler was telling him.

She went right to el-Habib, and, taking out a knife, cut his bonds. “A man like you, guarded by American soldiers, shouldn't be tied up.”

“At last.” El-Habib glared at Flix. “Someone who's come to her senses.” He worked his wrists to return circulation to them.

Flix, for his part, goggled at both of them as if they had grown second heads. “What the fuck d'you think you're doing?” he said to Charlie.

Charlie came around in front of the Saudi. “Stand up, please.”

Flix swung his AR-15 into firing position. “
Chica
, I won't ask you again: What are you doing?”

Charlie ignored him. “Stand up, let's get your legs working.”

“I don't think this is a good idea,” Flix said, ricocheting between nervousness and anger. “Better to wait for Whit.”

Charlie, continuing to ignore him, smiled sweetly at el-Habib. She reached forward, gave him a hand up. “Now, how does that feel?”

“Better,” he said as he tested the strength of his legs.

She stared him straight in the eye as she slammed her knee into his groin. “How about now?”